The King of Virgins
by redfiretruck
Summary: Stiles is a college freshmen; he's awkward and uncertain, and he certainly isn't going to win over his roommate, Jackson, any time soon. Actually, Jackson has dubbed him the "King of Virgins." Loser McLoserson, right? But when Derek Hale, the resident advisor, takes a liking to Stiles, his luck seems to change. Dramatically.
1. Chapter 1

His bed is made, which is the first and probably last time in the coming months. His desk is relatively clean – books stacked on the overhead bookshelf, pencils and pens and markers tucked into a plastic cup, notebooks bare of writing. There is no dust; there is no underlying gym sock scent. The floor is definitely visible. His shirts are hanging in the closet, with a few hoodies and some jackets. His socks are paired up and nestled in a drawer, next to new, clean underwear. The walls are still barren, excluding two posters: Star Wars, the original trilogy, and Harry Potter.

The sheriff sighs and glances down at his watch, twisting it on his wrist to squint down at the time. His mouth is tight, his movements a little too fidgety, and Stiles can hear the words his father is loathe to say: _It's time._

Just thinking about it makes his throat close, and he hastily glances away and scrubs at his hair. It's grown out since graduation and now he can actually style it. Scott has told him repeatedly _not _to pull it up into a faux-hawk, but it's just so fun.

"Stiles," his father finally says, gripping Stiles' shoulder and turning him around. There's already tears in John's eyes; Stiles feels his lower lip quake. They embrace, clutching at each other, and Stiles allows himself a little sob, squeezing his dad's shirt and breathing in his musky dad-smell.

He's been waiting for this day, but now that it's come, he couldn't be more terrified.

"I love you. You already make me proud, but – make me prouder, I guess."

A choked laugh and he nods, withdraws to swipe at his face, try to pull himself back together. The sheriff imitates him, rubbing his palms into his eyes, and then they grin at each other, nervous and unwilling to say goodbye.

Stiles says it first though, because he feels like he has to. He's adult now, after all. Whatever that means. "I love you, Dad. I see you during fall break, yea?"

"Of course, son. Don't wreck the car, and please, don't drag Scott into any trouble. Melissa will kill me."

He nods, ducks in for another quick hug, closes his eyes and feels himself let go. "Bye, Dad."

It's easier, knowing Melissa will be there to make sure he's eating well and his bottle of scotch lasts for at least a few months. Maybe they'll bond over the 'loss' of their two sons; maybe they'll actually do something about that sexual tension that always made Scott and him exchange exaggerated glances.

Without his dad around and his eyes surprisingly dry, he's not sure what to do. So he fidgets, fixing this, adjusting that. He figures out how the internet works and grumbles over how slow it is; he skims a quick BBC article, but refrains from Wikipedia. He stares at the opposite side of his room and wonders when his roommate is going to show up.

_Jackson Whittemore._ That was his roomie's name, and it struck Stiles as painfully pretentious. He'd facebook-stalked him, previewing as much as facebook would allow him to without actually sending a friend request; he'd been tempted to add _Jackson Whittemore, _but he felt too awkward and inadequate after seeing the kid with his six-pack of abs, laughing on a yacht.

He tells himself he's going to get up and go be social, or at least talk to his neighbors, but he doesn't. Instead, he cracks open the bag of chips he picked up from Target and starts gorging himself.

It's the knock on his door that rouses him. A glance at the alarm clock on his desk informs him he's been doing nothing for at least an hour; he winces at that, especially once he realizes it's probably Jackson, moving in. A slice of panic slits his belly, but then he shrugs it off – better that Jackson realizes he's a loser sooner than later.

When he opens the door, though, Jackson Whittemore is definitely not standing in front of him.

No, it must be Jesus or some demigod or something. Maybe he's finally having that crazy good wet dreamdream he's always wanted.

"Hi – are you Gen… Genim? I'm not saying that right, am I?"

Six foot tall.

"Stiles," his mouth says automatically. "I prefer Stiles."

Muscled, but not grossly. Definitely toned underneath that v-neck shirt of his.

"Ah, okay. I'll keep that in mind, Stiles." His smile is toothy, white, and straight – hopefully he isn't though.

He's sporting some heavy stubble, thick and black, just like his hair. It's gelled back, or at least it was – now it's more than a little tousled and sweaty. Stiles wants to reach up and run his fingers through it, wonders what it'd be like to grab handfuls of it.

He's wondering half a dozen things before he realizes he should probably be speaking.

The words that tumble out of his mouth don't make sense, and instead just sound like a helpless little noise. Stiles flushes immediately, hotly and probably vividly, and tries again. "U, w-who are you?"

The guy's laughing though, glancing down at his clipboard and glancing up almost shyly. "Derek Hale, your RA. I was just checking in, see how you're settling in and whatnot."

_Better, now. You wanna come in? _his slutty alter-ego wants to purr, but Stiles just blinks and swallows and does something with his shoulders that is supposed to convey he's-okay-but-kinda-nervous-and-wow-can-I-squeeze- your-bicep.

Derek seems to interpret it pretty well though (excluding the bicep part), nodding and flashing yet another award-winning smile. "I know what you mean. Move-in day is kinda crazy. Have your parents already left?"

"Yea, my dad left a few hours-minutes ago."

His hazel eyes glance past Stiles' face into his room and he nods, saying, "Well, it definitely looks like you're settled in. Your roommate – Jackson, I think? – hasn't checked in yet, but I'm guessing he'll be here before the day's over. No one wants to miss those first big parties." Another laugh, and Stiles wants to drool.

That's probably a cue that he needs to stop staring, but everything about Derek Hale is stare-able.

"Anyway, I gotta see how everyone else is doing. You should definitely talk to some people around the hall; you're going to be living with them for the next year, so make friends now, y'know? If you have any questions or worries or if you just wanna talk, I'm in the room at the end of the hall. Okay?"

Derek flashes him one last smile, and then he's walking away.

His ass is definitely as great as his smile.

Stiles is just considering whether he can get away with a quick jerk-off session when another boy shows up at the door. He's blonde and built and the first words Jackson Whittemore utters to him are, "You gonna move or what?"

* * *

Orientation lasts for four days. There are at least three inspirational speeches, two picnic-buffet things, and a lot of being herded around. Stiles chats with whomever's beside him, enlightening the world with his sarcasm and cynicism. A few actually laugh, some smile, and some even toss back witty shit that makes him crack a smile. Mostly, though, he's just on edge, babbling to comfort himself.

He misses Scott, truth be told, but his best friend is busy with his own orientation group and newfound brother-in-arms (AKA: the lacrosse team). It's not that he feels left out, but he feels left out. They've seen each other once since arriving, and that was to grab some dinner; halfway through the meal, some girl dropped down beside him, all doe eyes and smiles, and Stiles realized why he hasn't seen Scott like, at all.

Jackson Whittemore is just the asshole Stiles imagined, but at least Jackson doesn't linger around the room. He already has a posse that Stiles has seen marching across campus, and obviously a stuffy dorm room is Jackson's equivalent to a cesspool. He's already made comments about the faults in their room: the flooring is hideous, the walls have a weird smell, the wardrobes aren't big enough, the beds suck. Apparently, one of the biggest flaws is Stiles though, if Jackson's conversation with his mom is anything to go by.

The last night of orientation (Saturday), they're allowed and encouraged to grab some blankets or check out a sleeping bag and sleep on the lawn, staring up at whatever stars are visible. It seems kinda stupid to Stiles, considering they're in the middle of a city, but that's before he comes back to the room after eating dinner alone and finds Jackson heavily preoccupied.

That is to say, Stiles opens the door and only a desk lamp is on and it smells like booze and wow, okay, he's pretty sure there are two bodies in that bed but the way their mouths are connected, you would never know they were two separate entities.

He hastily shuts the door (as quietly as possible, praying Jackson doesn't hear to yell at him later) and wonders if there are still sleeping bags available. And pillows. And pajamas. And maybe some nightshade, because he's not sure he's going to be able to forget what he just witnessed – for better and for worse (admittedly, it was a little hot).

He rests his forehead against the wall, chewing at his lip. It's these kinds of times that he misses Scott, these moments where he feels a little overwhelmed and very lonely. He's heard it a million times since arriving; _if you feel alone and are worrying about making friends, just remember that everyone else feels the same way._

True or not, it doesn't change the fact that it's his first Saturday night of college and he's one-hundred-percent alone.

"Throwing yourself a pity party?" The voice is closer than anticipated and definitely directed at him; Stiles flings himself away from the wall and stumbles back. "I guess that would be a yes."

The girl speaking smiles a tight, judgmental smile and turns to the door in front of her – his door. Jackson's door. She knocks once and sighs, tossing her red hair over her shoulder and knocking again, louder. Still no answer, and her wide, hazel eyes dart back toward Stiles. "Can I help you with something?" she asks impatiently.

"Uh," Stiles intones, before shaking his head, "no, I just – I literally just stepped in there and Jackson's pretty busy."

She wrinkles his nose at him, then bangs on the door. "Jackson – _Jackson! _Open up, you whore."

It's another minute, but then the door opens and Jackson is smirking through the crack. "Hey, Lydia. What's up?"

"The party, Jackson. We're going to the party, remember? Now put a shirt on and fix your hair."

From this angle, Stiles can't see his roommate, but he's willing to guess Jackson is shirtless and has some crazy make-out hair going on. Briefly, he wonders if Lydia and him are together, but that seems absurd – if they were a couple, wouldn't he have seen Lydia sooner? Wouldn't she be the one suction cupped to his face?

"Give me, like, two minutes, fuck. Not like you're going to leave without me." The door starts to close, but then Lydia slams a hand against it and pushes it back open.

"Wanna bet?" she says, arching a brow.

"Lydia, c'mon, I have _company, _give me a second," Jackson repeats under his breath, his voice edgy with agitation.

Stiles briefly wonders if he should leave, because this definitely isn't any of his business and he's seriously just standing there, staring at these two beautiful people arguing. Of course, that's before Lydia reaches out and grips his wrist like a kraken, yanking him to his side. "So do I," she retorts, smiling sweetly up at Stiles. Her fingers slide up his wrist to the inside of his forearm and she squeezes gently, leaning against him. "Now get your ass out here, or we're leaving."

There's a moment of dead silence, and then Jackson is laughing. "_Stiles?! _He's a fucking freak, Lydia, please."

"You don't know what his mouth can do."

The comment makes Jackson freeze and Stiles is blushing and wow, this Lydia girl has one of the most seductive smiles on earth. Should he bend a knee to his queen now or later, he wonders, but then that gets him thinking about how much Song of Ice and Fire he's been reading and, yea, he should definitely curb that.

Jackson swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and he eyes Stiles before sighing. The door shuts and Lydia releases his arm.

She doesn't thank him, or explain, or anything. Stiles just stands there for a minute, then asks, "That's – that's it?"

Lydia shoots him a hard expression and crosses his arms. "Don't talk to me," is the only thing that she says and Stiles turns to go down the hallway. As he turns for the stairs, he hears a door open and Jackson's voice: "You're such a liar; that kid has to be the king of virgins if there ever was one."

He wonders what he ever did to make Jackson hate him, but whatever. He tries to shake it off, wondering if he should text Scott again (for the tenth time) or if he should try to find his party himself. Frankly, he was hoping to just go back to his room and turn on some Colbert, read a few Wiki articles, edit some of his short films and post them to YouTube.

At this point, he can, of course – the room is empty – but he'd feel even worse if Jackson happened to forget something and came barging back in, only to find Stiles already wormed up in his bed. He grimaces at the thought and reaches up to tousle his locks, then turns for the exit door and slips into the night air.

He's halfway down the sidewalk when someone calls out, "Stiles!"

It's tempting to just keep walking, not turn around, but his feet do it anyway and he's whirling. Maybe it's because the voice is familiar, dark and sultry, and Stiles' head has been full of it.

"Hey!" Derek comes jogging toward him, a lopsided grin on his face. "What're you doing right now?"

"I was just gonna, uh – go for a walk. Around the neighborhood. I guess." It's a better excuse than _I don't want to prove to Jackson that I am the king of virgins and losers._

"Oh. By yourself?" Derek glances past his shoulder, as if trying to see his invisible crowd of friends.

Stiles flushes and fidgets with his phone. "Yea, but like, I've been around people for so long I kinda just wanna get away."

It's as if neither of them know what to say; Derek seems like too nice of a guy to push for details, but Stiles doesn't want to be rude and just walk away. That's what he's considering doing, though, before Derek finally asks, "Mind if I come with? It'd be nice to get out for a little while."

His heart stutters and, yea, it's Derek Hale, the Hottest Man Alive, but he's not sure if he can handle any more embarrassment for the night. Stiles hadn't actually been considering going on a walk, but now that the idea's there, it sounds good. Being alone, even for twenty, thirty minutes, with no judgment or pressure digging into him – it may be the medicine he needs.

Derek seems to sense his hesitation, or maybe Stiles is as obvious as ever, because he says, "It's okay to say no."

Stiles shakes his head. "No, it's – it's fine, you can come. Sorry, I'm just a little, uh, foggy right now. What've you been up to?"

And just like that, Derek falls into step beside him. The sidewalk is neither narrow nor wide, so they're close, shoulders and hands almost touching but not quite. Stiles can just begin to feel the heat of the other boy's body, and it makes him bite his lip.

At first, it's idle chatter about school. Derek is a junior, it's his first year being an RA, he's majoring in biology, because like 94.78% of the world's population, he wants to be a doctor. He isn't sure exactly what _kind _of doctor, but a doctor. "Actually," he mumbles, "I might just be a nurse. I want my patients to know me, y'know, but I wanna make my parents proud." He shrugs, looking down at the pavement. "I don't know."

"Are they hard on you?" Stiles asks slowly, carefully; he's not sure if he's invited to get personal with Derek, he's not even sure if he's _allowed _to.

Derek snorts at the question, a wry smirk twisting his mouth, but there's something off in his expression, in the way he holds himself. He's too tense to be amused, his mind elsewhere. "You could say that."

It's a note to drop the topic and Stiles does with a nod; he understands not wanting to talk about parents and politics, considering his mother passed away a few years ago. So, when Derek falls quiet, Stiles fills the silence with his own goals. "I'm really into film, so I want to try my hand at that. I guess we'll see how the semester goes, but like – I'm really excited. I don't know if I want to be a director or a producer or, like, one of the lighting guys, I just wanna get my hands dirty and get in the business. Dad's not too happy about it, because how many people actually make it into the industry, but it's my passion and it's worth the risk."

Derek doesn't seem to be listening, which is a little disappointing, considering Stiles is talking about _his passion _but he tries not to let it get to him – after all, Derek Hale is just another hot guy, it's not like Stiles actually has a shot with him.

Still, Stiles can't help but try to get the guy to smile, so he nudges Derek with an elbow and says, "I can say that now, because I'm not unemployed and starving."

He receives a small grin in reply, followed by a light sigh. Ten seconds later, Stiles is getting shoved into the empty street. He accordingly stumbles, almost falls, and then there's a parked car _right in his face_; luckily, his hand juts out and he halts himself, breathless and a little panicked. Derek is laughing, and as Stiles to him, the guy just shrugs. "Don't nudge me without considering the consequences. I'm on the basketball team; I can beat your ass."

Brow quirked, Stiles boasts, "Yea? Well, I'm a fucking black belt. I'll taekwondo your ass right back."

"Are not," Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes.

Stiles grins at him, laughing. "No, but I might take a class just for kicks."

The next push he gets is gentler and Stiles is grateful it's dark out – that way Derek can't see the blush on his cheeks, or the smile he can't quite wipe off his face.

"But, for real, you play basketball?"

"Yea, totally. I'm varsity, starting lineup, shooting guard."

Stiles blinks at him. "So… so, like, you're good?"

Derek laughs, shrugs. "You can decide for yourself, I guess. If you want."

"I hate sports."

That's when Derek stops in his tracks, looking affronted. "Take it back?"

"No. Dude. Gross. Sports are like – the bane of my existence. Walking is a struggle for me, don't even talk about running. Do you know how many scars I have from gym class?"

"Are we talking emotional or physical? And do they have to do with gym class, or the locker room?"

Stiles bursts into laughter, ducking his face behind the crook of his elbow. "Wow, that's so mean."

Derek shrugs and waggles his eyebrows. "I never said I was a nice RA."

"Obviously I got the short end of the stick."

"Hey, you sleeping under the stars tonight?"

The abrupt change in topic doesn't quite phase Stiles; he shrugs, squinting down the road. They're almost back to the university, and he can see people starting to gather out in one of the big fields. A part of him actually is exhausted and wants to curl up and break down beneath his blankets – he misses home, he misses his dad, he misses when Scott was literally his best friend and the only person Stiles ever wanted to hang out with. The other half of him wants to stand up to Jackson's remarks and actually, like, be out of the room for more than three hours.

"Mmm, I might. Haven't decided. Don't you think there'll be a shit ton of mosquitoes, though?"

"Nah, we're in a city. You can't even fucking see the stars, it's just an excuse to get all your newbies outside so we can dump water on your faces in the morning."

"Well, now I'm definitely not coming."

"But seriously. You should." Derek's voice changes, sobers, and when Stiles looks over at him, he's staring back. "Bring your warmest blankets and your shittiest pillow and come outside. You'll be surprised by how much fun it is."

Stiles swallows. It's hard to say no with Derek looking at him the way he is – like Stiles is the only thing that matters right now, like Derek actually _really _wants him to come. His lips part and he exhales shakily, breaking the contact as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck; he's gotta be as red as a tomato.

"Yea, okay, fine. You sold me."

Derek cheers, and Stiles smiles. Mostly, he's just sad their walk is over.


	2. Chapter 2

"You hooked up?"

These are three words Stiles has mixed feelings over – he knew they were bound to fall out of his mouth, but he never imagined they'd be directed at Scott.

Scott, who is flushed and grinning excitedly at him across the booth they're nestled in. Scott, who definitely has a few hickeys on his neck and wow, Stiles really wants to try that (with another person, preferably not Scott). Scott, his best friend – only, now he is the iceberg to Stiles' _Titanic. _Or maybe it's the other way around….

Either way, Stiles is left gaping at his friend, both proud and surprised, but also unsurprised because – well, he knows Scott, and he's a good guy. Good guys deserve pretty, funny girls that are also definitely kissable. And they deserve handsome, funny guys that are also definitely kissable, too.

"Say something!" Scott says, pushing a forkful of hashbrowns into his mouth.

"I just… It's fast, isn't it? To be doing that kinda stuff? Shouldn't you court her for a year first?" Stiles blurts, distracted by his thoughts. A beat later, he's saying, "_I mean, _good for you, Scott. I'm happy you're, uh, _happy." _He smiles, and he means it, and Scott looks a little less disappointed and a little more self-satisfied.

Inwardly, though, Stiles is having a mild panic attack. He knows he's not the average teen. The average teen goes out and gets drunk and smokes some weed, or at least that's what the media says. Stiles… he gets off on _How It's Made_, and while he watches porn like every other soul in the nation, he watches porn _and _reads groundbreaking science discoveries, and he's okay with that. But maybe – maybe he skipped something, or maybe he was born with something missing. Some fundamental desire to get raging drunk and/or high and go rut against someone else's thigh or – no, he definitely has the latter, but the thing is…

The thing is, no one in the history of the world has ever been interested in _him. _

Genim Stilinski. _Stiles._

He's eighteen years old, and his sex life (past, present, and future) is as bleak as the Gobi Desert. Bleaker, actually. Maybe like Darth Vader's sex life, post-amputation.

It's not that Stiles is consumed with thoughts of sex or concern over his lack of potential suitors, it's just that occasionally it worries him. He's eighteen years old, and his sex drive is clearly indicating that he should be procuring a few STDs.

_The king of virgins._

Ugh, he hates Jackson Whittemore.

"Has anyone caught your eye?"

He blinks, looks up at Scott and shrugs, sighs. "We've barely been here for two weeks, and you want to put me and sex in the same sentence? We went to high school with the same exact people for four years, _and no one even glanced at me!" _

Okay, so he's definitely letting the whole no-sex-thing consume him. Whatever, it's his life.

Scott just laughs though. "Yea, well, those people also saw you with five hundred zits and, like, go through puberty. You're in college now, and you look good."

Stiles' head jerks up at that; one second, he's mentally beating away his frustration, and the next he's completely diverted with the potential that Scott may think he's… what, cute, handsome, daresay even _ruggedly handsome? _He's touched.

"Dude, no. Sorry, but no," Scott says as soon as he spies the look in Stiles' eyes, raising his palms as if to ward him off (it's not like Stiles was going to launch himself at Scott, please – he's not that desperate). "I'm just saying, college is a different ballgame. People just wanna _play ball_. Why can't you be one of them? So tell me: _has anyone caught your eye?"_

Another defeated sigh pushes through his lips and he grudgingly asks, "Do you know who Derek Hale is?"

He gets to the count of four before Scott's eyebrows hitch up his forehead and he leans a little closer, hissing, "_You like Derek fucking Hale?!"_

Stiles winces and pinches his forefinger and thumb together to signal that Scott needs to _lower his fucking voice. _Never mind that his best friend is already whispering. "He's my RA and he's gorgeous. I _know _it's hopeless. I have the wrong gear between my legs and, like, every girl on campus has to be crushing on him."

"Let's be honest, even I have a crush on Derek Hale."

Scott receives a glower for the comment.

"Well, don't give up. You gotta try everything once, right? And, anyway, there are plenty of hot guys on campus that'd love to shove their tongue down your throat."

Stiles winces at the phrasing, says, "You don't know that. And, anyway, I can already begin the count to prove you wrong – Jackson Whittemore ranks, like, at the top."

"Jackson Whittemore? Wait, _that _assholeis your roommate?"

"Duh! Who the fuck else would I be talking about?"

"Well, I dunno. You didn't mention that his last name was Whittemore until two seconds ago. Anyway, he can't be totally bad. Like, he's already the douchebag of the lacrosse team, but still…" Scott waggles his eyebrows and Stiles is tempted to throw egg at him; instead, he refrains, settling for a dramatic groan as he leans back in his chair, hiding behind his fingers.

"Next time we eat together, can you try to look presentable? I don't need you of all people to be flaunting your evolutionary success in front of me." He gestures at his own neck, the expanse of pale, virginal skin that's a painful contrast to Scott's hickey/leopard-print flesh. Jesus.

Scott seems to acquiesce, but it doesn't prevent him from quipping, "Let's hope I'm not evolutionarily successful for at least ten years, yea?"

* * *

"I can't decide whether I hate essays or math more," Jackson muses. He's on his bed, leaning against the wall, laptop cradled between his two knees. Stiles doesn't need the details to know that Jackson's talking about his history essay – the one that is due in approximately four hours, the one Jackson was griping about a week ago and the same one he just started.

"Both of them only illuminate a fundamental weakness in your repertoire as an academic," Lydia breathes. She's sitting at Jackson's desk, her math text, notes, and a notebook sprawled across the tabletop; she's slumped over all of it, hair tossed over one shoulder as she writes out equations and solves them without even trying.

That's what it looks like to Stiles, anyway, who keeps tossing sidelong glances at the pair. He has his own essay pulled up in front of him – actually, it's a draft of an oral argument he has to present tomorrow – and it's nearly finished, so he grants himself this one distraction (iTunes, Wikipedia and Reddit don't count as distractions at this point; he likes to think of them as mental nourishment and creative brain boosts). Neither of them seem to notice, and if they do, they insist on ignoring him.

"And I should be grateful for this opportunity to improve myself, right?" Jackson finishes for her; she sits up and offers him a wry smile. Every time Stiles has encountered them, they're bickering, but he's quickly deciding it's how they communicate.

"Well, if you say so." Her smile grows into a toothy grin, and then she leans back into a stretch, back arching and arms reaching upward. Stiles feels his mouth grow dry and he flushes, noting the curve of her breasts and the tight line of her stomach. Jackson catches his eye and Stiles hastily ducks his head down and swallows.

"Freak," his roommate mumbles.

Stiles glowers at his screen but doesn't comment. He listens to the creak in Jackson's chair as Lydia shifts – presumably to get back to work, or maybe to look over at him. Not that there's much to look at. Sweatpants and a plain, baggy t-shirt is his typical homework attire; it's also his sleep attire, too, but hey, it's eight o'clock on a Wednesday night and he isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Actually, he might go to the café on campus real fast and grab a BLT sandwich or something, because man, he could really do with a snack.

"Are you going to the party on Saturday? I think rush week is happening soon, and like, all the frats and sororities are gonna be hosting."

"Probably. Sounds like fun, y'know? They'll be a bunch of cute, drunk guys there, for me and you both."

Jackson laughs once, but then says, "I dunno, Lydia, Danny's actually, uh…" His tone changes, almost gets shy, and Stiles holds his breath – does Jackson actually have _feelings? _For another person? Other than himself? _What?_ "He's pretty great. It's unexpected."

"You mean he's a pretty great kisser," Lydia teases.

"That, too." Jackson laughs; it sounds a little breathless, and Stiles is dying. He casually pushes his laptop so it's angled, the screen facing beyond his shoulder, and clicks onto his internet browser, pulling up a darker webpage; it grants him a reflection of Jackson, biting his lip as if to ward off a smile.

The usual hard anger in his eyes isn't present (at least, that's what it looks like), and for once, Stiles actually sees why people find Jackson attractive – right now, soft and caught off guard, he looks cute.

"Does that mean you're serious about him?" she pushes, lowering her voice.

And just like that, Jackson snaps back to himself. He wrinkles his nose and casts her a dubious expression. "Please. I still have half this campus to wreak havoc on, starting with the RA."

Lydia snorts. "Good luck with that. You sure he bends that way?"

"Everyone bends over sometime or another," Jackson retorts. "He's varsity basketball, which means he's gotta be at the party. He's basically already mine."

It sounds like something the bitchy antagonist would say in a bad teenage drama. Going with the motif, that apparently makes Stiles the homely protagonist with the hots for the same guy. Which is kinda true. Regardless, Stiles almost wishes he had his camera out to record the whole exchange, because with a few additional clips, he could totally make some cliché movie trailer. Wouldn't that be amusing?

A smile doesn't upturn his mouth though. It shouldn't matter whether Derek Hale is getting freaky with Jackson Whittemore (or anyone, for the record), but Stiles can't help but think that… if Derek is going to be _bending over _for anyone, it should definitely be him.

Actually, if Derek is going to be _bent over anyone, _it should definitely be him.

Does that mean the competition is on?

He snorts at that, shaking his head, and returns to pounding out his concluding argument, mouthing the words as he goes, feeling the rhythm of them on his tongue. When the last period finally comes, he hits _save _and jumps up from his chair, scooping up his student ID and keys.

Without a word, he jams his feet into some sneakers and hits the stairs. A quick jog across campus to the café (ten minutes 'til closing, _score!)_ and he makes a quick purchase of that BLT he was craving. Or, at least, he intends to make it quick, but once he gets to the cash register, he recognizes the dark wavy locks and big, brown eyes.

"Allison, right?"

"Yea." She smiles at him warmly, ringing up his sandwich. As he swipes his ID to pay, she squints at him, then adds cautiously, "You're Scott's friend – from high school?"

_Best friend, before you came along. _The thought is unbidden and he pushes it away, instead nodding and grinning back at her. He can't screw this up, knowing how happy Scott is. "Yup, that guy. We met over dinner a few weeks ago?"

"Mhmm. You had some good jokes up your sleeve. Scott loves you."

As he scoops up his sandwich, he laughs, "Well, tell him I said hi."

"Actually. I haven't seen him in a while."

Her words stop him, or maybe it's the look on her face – teeth digging into her lower lip, uncertainty in her eyes. She was made to laugh, with her dimples and white teeth and dancing eyes, and this doubt makes Stiles want to find Scott then and there and wring his neck. "Oh," is the only thing that comes out of his mouth though, a breathless little sound.

Allison swallows and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Like, it's only been five days, but…" One shoulder reaches her ear in a shrug, and then her brows furrow and she stares down at the counter. "I know, it's not your problem, I was just wondering if maybe… maybe he said something to you? About me?"

Five days ago, Scott had been smiling and giddy and definitely covered in some bruises. When he spoke about Allison, it wasn't in a triumphant way – okay, it was, _kinda_, but it's not like he spoke of Allison as if she were simply a conquest. Of course Scott was a little breathless with the fact that he made out with a girl, but he was also wound up with puppy love.

He glances up at her and holds his breath. He should lie and say Scott's just busy or something, but he doesn't know why Scott hasn't spoken to her and it's not his business. In high school, Stiles would shove his nose in Scott's life without a second thought, but back then, Scott had always told him everything going on in his life. It's different now.

The thought causes his stomach to twist painfully, and he sighs. "I wish I could say so, but he hasn't talked to me in a while either, Allison. I'll call him though, see what's going on. Don't worry, Scott's a weirdo," he says, hoping the words will comfort her in some capacity. A beat after they come out, though, he blinks and then hastily adds, "I mean, he's a weirdo but he's not, y'know, a _weirdo. _He isn't… he isn't…"

She's laughing though, shaking her head. "No, I get what you're saying, Stiles, don't worry. Hey, are you coming to the frat party Saturday?"

"They aren't really my scene."

"You should. You should come."

Stiles is taken aback by the invite, by the sincerity in her tone, but then he grins and nods. "I'll think about it, how 'bout that?"

They part ways and Stiles takes his time walking back to his room. It gives him an opportunity to dial Scott's phone; his best friend doesn't pick up until Stiles calls him for the third time.

"Stiles! Hey, sorry, I'm just, like – there's this test I have tomor–"

"Don't worry, Scott. I just wanted to talk to you real fast."

A pause, then, "Okay…"

"What's up with you and Allison? I just saw her and she said you guys hadn't spoken in a few days."

His voice changes, softens. "Oh. Allison. She said that? Did she seem worried?"

"_Duh, _dude. You haven't called her or anything?"

"No!" Scott wails, and then he huffs and Stiles knows he's thoroughly distracted his friend. "I've made a mess of everything. I felt so good afterwards, and then I thought it'd be a good idea to wait to text her because I didn't want to seem too eager but then time kept going by and I kept thinking that she hadn't texted me either and what if she regrets it, Stiles? Because, like, I'm me and she's _her_ and…" He sighs miserably.

It instantly makes Stiles feel bad for all the negative feelings he's been harboring against Scott for abandoning him. "Hey, Scott. Ignoring your failing logic, I think she totally digs you. Text her, man."

"You think so?" he asks in a small voice and Stiles wants to clobber him and hug him and, Jesus, he misses Scott.

"Yes!" Stiles practically shouts, and when Scott laughs, so does he. "Okay, I'll let you get back to your studies."

"Yea, okay. I'm gonna text her, and then study. But I'm gonna text her first. Thanks, Stiles. You're a lifesaver."

_Or a sex life saver, really, but whatever._

"No problem."

"I'll talk to you later, then."

Stiles is about to drop the phone and end the call, but then he verbally lunges, figuring he has nothing to lose – "_Scott. _Wait. Wait. Uhm. Can… Do you think we can hang out? I miss you, man, and someone needs to keep you in line."

There's a pause on the line, and for a second, Stiles wonders if Scott already hung up. But then his voice is crackling in his ear: "_Duh. _You're the one who hasn't been talking to me! I thought I, like, pissed you off or something."

Stiles wants to throttle him, but he's smiling with relief all the same. "No. No way, bro. I'll text you and we'll work something out. Good luck on your exam."

When he finally hauls himself up the stairs (sweet Jesus, _why _did he have to be assigned to the third floor?), he's a little out of breath. He pauses, leaning against the wall, and his eyes slowly creep down the hall toward Derek's room.

The door's open and Derek's visible at his desk, biting the end of his pencil. After a while, he brings the graphite down and scrawls something into a notebook, hesitates, then lifts the eraser back to his lips. After a moment, as if he's able to sense Stiles' gaze, he glances down the hall and his eyes find Stiles and he grins. A hand raises, waves, and Stiles does a nod of acknowledgement, then mimics wiping sweat off his brow. Derek laughs, and it's audible down the hall.

He can't manage the confidence to go down and talk to him, so instead he ducks his head and goes to his room.

Jackson is still there, typing away and complaining, and Lydia is still calculating her math problems. Neither glance at him, until he phone jingles with a jolly little tone and Stiles fumbles into his pocket to pull it out.

He forgot that, as an RA, Derek has his number.

_still too pretty for sports?_

_we should go for another walk sometime_

_just sayin' – a fifty year old man could beat you up those stairs_

Stiles heart stops beating and he has to bite his lip to keep from smiling too hard.

* * *

The sun finally dips below the horizon on Saturday night, and it's as if the moon is the DJ, because the more it illuminates the night, the louder the subwoofer gets. Bubbly pop music is thrumming through the speakers and there's a mash of bodies. The lighting is kinda crazy (at least in the bigger rooms, like the living room and basement), a spray of colors that flash around and turn eyes to red and mouths to blue.

He's sweaty just from being inside, the heat is so intense. Initially, he'd come along with Scott and Allison; they'd worked things out, it seemed, and at first, it wasn't awkward. But then the music got louder and their bodies got closer and, well, Stiles has a weak stomach. So he bounced around on his own, tossed down a beer, and another.

And another.

Being honest, he's mostly been drinking and standing in a corner, nodding to people that walk by and opening his mouth as if to speak. Words never come out though, and no one seems to really want to talk to him.

He finishes his third beer and winds his way through the hallway to get to the kitchen. The windows are thrown open and it feels so much better; he runs his fingers through his hair and scrubs, then looks around.

And there, in the corner, is Derek.

Except, it's more like Derek is being corralled into the corner, Jackson pressing close. It's like watching a predator hone in on its prey, but Derek doesn't quite seem into it – he's looking at Jackson, but he's not _really _looking at Jackson. That's what Stiles' drunk brain says to himself anyway.

At least until the two are suddenly kissing, and Stiles can see the way Jackson's fingers ruck up Derek's shirt.

For the record though, he can't see Derek's hands anywhere on Jackson. Actually, they're clutching the edge of the counter, tightly enough to turn his knuckles white.

Stiles opens his mouth without a second thought and crows, "Eyyyy! _Derek_!"


	3. Chapter 3

_just wanted to say thanks for all the love & support, guys! i'm digging__ this story, and i hope y'all are, too. c:_

The first lesson Stiles learns about party etiquette is that, when speaking, one must raise one's voice to astronomical levels. This is not guaranteed to work, however. When he shouts across the room, a few people near him give him sidelong looks, but the pair in question doesn't seem to notice. If anything, Jackson is working his way closer to Derek (is that even possible at this point?) and his hands have definitely slipped up Derek's shirt. Stiles gets a peek at hard abs and a dark happy trail.

Maybe that's what motivates him to move forward and grab Jackson's shoulder, tugging slightly.

Their mouths are working hungrily against each other, but at Stiles' touch, Jackson pulls away and glares over his shoulder. When his blue eyes register that it's _Stiles, _it's like his glare levels up from pissed to venomous.

Dude has anger issues.

"What the fuck do you want?" he growls, but while some logical part of Stiles' brain is considering whether this is worth his life (because, seriously, the kitchen knives can't be too far away and Jackson looks like some 'roid-rage serial killer), the majority of his brain is just focused on Derek.

Derek, with reddened lips that are parted slightly and definitely arousing.

"Leave him alone," Stiles shouts back in classic hero style.

"The fuck I will. He's _mine." _Jackson shoves him, hard, and Stiles stumbles. His hand catches on the back of a chair though, and he manages not to fall on his ass.

Jackson keeps coming, momentarily forgetting his prey. Or is Stiles his prey now? How quickly the tables turn. "Go back to your cave, loser. You don't belong here – no one wants you here anyway."

"Shut up, Asson – _Jackson. _People aren't property, you, you _dickbag_."

His second lesson about parties and/or drinking is that, once he gets drunk, it's like his loud mouth suddenly becomes a megaphone and, wow, he seriously has no self-control.

And his third lesson – well, it's not even really a lesson, because Stiles learned it in the third grade, the year he started getting bullied by the cool kids, but all the same: Don't piss off someone who already hates you.

Jackson's arm recoils and Stiles' reflexes aren't fast enough; he flinches, but the blow still clobbers in his ear.

People lurch into action then, pushing Jackson back, shouting – Stiles can't tell if they're yelling at him or Jackson or both. Really, he's just focused on the pain throbbing through his head and that fact that, five seconds later, someone is grabbing his wrist and yanking him away from the commotion.

It's not 'til they're outside, the cool air raising gooseflesh all over his body, that Stiles squints up to find Derek at his side.

The RA is flushed and breathing a little heavy, and he says, "Fuck, Stiles, you're an idiot. _Sit down. _Is your head okay?"

It's a lot of words for someone so drunk, but Stiles can at least follow basic commands. He looks at his feet, steps down one of the porch step, then sits/falls onto his ass. "Not an idiot," he mutters for clarification.

"What were you _thinking_?"

That's when Stiles realizes the guy's angry, and yea, _seriously? _Stiles looks up at him and scowls and says, "I was – I was _thinking _that you looked like you didn't want to be there, so _SAH-RY _if I tried to help you. I even… I even got – Jackson _punched me in the ear!" _

Derek glowers at him, then scowls and hisses up at the sky, his breath steaming slightly. His fingers lift and pull through his hair, tousling it, and he's still for a full ten seconds before he finally drops down next to Stiles. "Sorry. I didn't think to stop Jackson from hitting you."

"That's nice."

"And you're right, I didn't want to be there, but…" Derek shrugs, bites down on his lip, and Stiles mumbles, "So why didn't you just shove him off?"

"I don't know." Another shrug, and even through the haze of alcohol, Stiles can tell he's not being told the whole truth.

It makes him sigh, and he leans over so his head is pressed against the railing. "Whatever, Derek. Sorry if I, uhm, like, ruined your night. Pretty sure Jackson'll take you back, though… Maybe, like, tell him he's pretty and smart and you really want to suck his cock."

Whatever overcame him in that kitchen – the rush of confidence and the bold certainty that he could save Derek – is gone, crushed by Derek's reaction, and maybe the fact that he totally forgot that getting punched in the head and/or face hurts. Now, he's just defeated.

Derek doesn't say anything for a while, and Stiles lifts his head up to look over, half-convinced he left.

Which he hasn't. Actually, the RA is looking down his feet, smiling to himself. "I usually don't like drunk people, but you might be an exception."

"I'm – like, I'm honored. _Privileged." _

Derek snorts and looks over at him, brows raised. "Dude, you're so wasted. How many fingers am I holding up?" He raises his hand and wiggles his fingers like Stiles is five and, somehow, it insults him. Stiles lurches to his feet and smacks Derek's hand away.

"Butthead."

This just makes Derek laugh, and the RA stands up as well. One of his hands hooks itself around Stiles' elbow, steadying him as they climb down the steps. "Did you just call me a butthead? Seriously?"

"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?"

He considers, then shrugs. "It's better than being called _Asson _I guess." And then he smiles his award-winning smile and laughs, repeating the name under his breath.

Stiles flushes. He finds himself leaning against Derek some, because he's never noticed it before, but the earth is like – curved, which makes it really hard to walk. Also: Derek is warm. "I didn't _mean _to call him Asson! I wanted to – I wanted to call him an _asshole _but then my tongue said Jackson and…" He sighs miserably, then drops his voice, "Do you think he took it personally?"

Derek is still smiling, leading them down the sidewalk and back toward campus. "He may have, but I bet he's going to get pretty drunk tonight, so he probably won't remember."

They lapse into silence, and Stiles listens to the dimming music and the sound his feet make as they shuffle him forward. Derek is much steadier, which makes him wonder if the RA was drinking at all. It's still confusing him _why _Derek was kissing Jackson, but he doesn't ask, mostly for his own sake.

Derek kissing Jackson means Derek won't be kissing Stiles. He's not a big fan of math, but he can add something as simple as that. That sort of math hurts though – no, actually, all math hurts, but this Derek-kissing math hurts his heart and lowers his mood.

He already feels a little shitty, anyway.

"Hey, Derek?"

"What's up?"

"What… like, what happens, if you like someone, but they don't like you back and instead they like the evilest person in the world?"

He considers, humming thoughtfully, before he answers. There's a smile in his voice that warms Stiles' blood. "Maybe they're evil themselves, you just don't know it yet."

"You think so?" Stiles asks. He's surprised, and his head jerks to the side so he can look at Derek.

When they went for their walk, they'd been close enough, but now they're even closer. One of Stiles' arms if pressed against Derek's torso, and he can feel each breath the other takes. Their faces are closer too, and even though it's dark, the moon and the occasional lamp illuminate the world enough that Stiles can really appreciate the hard line of his jaw and, like, the artistic way his stubble decorates it.

Derek catches him staring and just grins. His hand drops from Stiles' arm, and the teen begins to protest, but then Derek drapes his arm over his shoulders and pulls him closer. It's almost natural for Stiles to simply wrap his arm around Derek's waist, but his heart is thumping unevenly and it's suddenly not so easy to breathe.

"But – but what would you do? If that kind of thing happened?" Stiles asks, picking up their conversation again. It's mostly for the sake of survival, because Stiles' breathing is little louder, a little heavier, and it's embarrassing. While he's practically swooning, Derek is unchanged.

"Maybe I'd try to steal them away," he offered. "But probably, I'd do nothing. I'm like that."

"Are you?"

"I am."

Stiles swallows and nods and wonders if Derek knows that they're totally talking about what just happened with Jackson. He wonders if Derek is taking him back to the dorm out of pity, and if he intends to run back to the party so Jackson and him can find a room. He wonders if Derek's head is reeling from their kiss, the same way Stiles' head is reeling from Derek's arm around his shoulder and his own arm around Derek's waist.

He wants to argue something, or point out something Derek is missing in his answer, or maybe he just wants to keep talking, but Stiles can't find the words nor the will. They're already at the dorm anyway, and Derek is carefully hauling him up the steps, Stiles lurching and stumbling. Twice, Derek has to dig his fingers into Stiles' shirt and haul him up, and each time, he can feel the fabric of his t-shirt hitch and reveal the expanse of flat, creamy skin that stretches between his hipbones.

He's very conscious that he is not ripped and that Derek probably doesn't even notice. Or care.

They eventually make it up the steps and Stiles is huffing. He slips away from Derek's grip and presses his hands against the wall, blinking fluidly as the world spins.

"You okay?" he hears the RA ask, and he swallows tightly and nods.

"Peachy," he eventually responds, and then he turns and smiles across at Derek and – wow, okay, Derek was three feet away from him, but now he's crowding Stiles against the wall and Stiles has no fucking problem with that.

His breath grows short and his hands are folded behind the small of his back as Derek leans closer, his own hands pressed against the wall on either side of Stiles.

"Still peachy?" Derek asks, breathing the word. It sends a chill down Stiles' spine, and he can't stop staring at the guy's mouth.

"Uhm, better, but I can only think of one fruit adjective other than peachy and that's fruity but, now that I think about it, I'm definitely feeling a little fruity right now," he exhales, rushing the words together. Or maybe they just slur together because he's drunk, he has no idea.

Derek smiles and dips his face closer, lips ghosting up Stiles' neck and, _wow, yes, more of that_.

He doesn't realize he actually said it that until Derek laughs against his skin, teeth nipping at the flesh below his ear. Stiles is too preoccupied to be embarrassed, a groan dropping out of his mouth, his head lulling back to grant Derek better access. His fingers, once pressed together behind his back, reach forward to Derek's hips, pushing up beneath his shirt.

Another bite, another gasp, and then Stiles' can't help himself – he drags his fingernails up Derek's torso and only stops when he finds the other's pecs. That's where he pushes, dragging Derek away from torturing his neck.

The RA is just as flushed as he is, Stiles is glad to note, and as their eyes meet, he detects a hint of concern.

It's quickly extinguished (at least, Stiles assumes so) when he lurches forward, crushing their mouths together. It isn't graceful, but Derek's lips still upturn briefly, and then he's back to pinning Stiles against the wall. One hand cradles the back of his head, cushioning him from the wall, while the other is hot against his cheek, and Stiles finds his fingers lifting from Derek's chest to his hair, locking into the strands just as he imagined the first time he laid eyes on the man.

When Stiles tugs slightly, unintentionally, Derek moans, his lips parting, and Stiles isn't the one to miss an opportunity – he slides his tongue into Derek's mouth, feels the other respond, and it's heaven.

Literally, kill him now so he can die happy.

It feels like it almost comes to that, but then they break apart, both panting, dragging in as much air as possible.

Neither of them actually move – Derek's still holding Stiles' head and Stiles' hands are still knotted in Derek's hair – except to lean their foreheads together. A vague part of his brain wonders if doing so is really effective, considering that they're probably just breathing in each other's carbon dioxide but whatever. It's hot, seeing Derek's swollen lips obscenely parted, feeling the way his chest swells with each gasp, noticing how hot his skin feels.

Eventually, he finds enough breath to mutter, "Fuck – should we… bedroom?"

Derek swallows and Stiles can't help but watch the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. The sight goes straight to his groin. What comes next counteracts the scene.

"No."

He blinks, swallows, feels his heartbeat drop into the negatives. "What, why?"

"I – Stiles, I don't think it's a good idea," Derek says. He licks his lips and adds, "I don't think this was a good idea."

A dismal variant of desperation claws up his throat, and when he asks, "Why?" his voice comes out in a hoarse whisper.

It makes Derek wince and he begins to withdraw; that's when Stiles realizes his own hands have already dropped back down to his sides.

"I'm your RA, Stiles. You live on my floor, right down the hall…"

"So? You already kissed Jackson."

There's a hard flash of _something _in Derek's eyes and he scowls, takes a step back. "It's different, that doesn't – that doesn't count."

"It doesn't count because he's, what – he's in your league, so it's okay to bend the rules?" Stiles can feel himself getting sick, and he can't tell whether it's because of Derek or because he's – he's Stiles, the Unwanted, the King of fucking Virgins.

"I didn't say that, Stiles."

"You don't have to. Thanks for helping me up the stairs."

Stiles pushes off from the wall and almost stumbles into Derek, but he manages to veer off and stagger down the hallway to his room. He digs into his pocket to grab his key and he shoves it viciously toward the lock.

And misses.

"Shit fuck shitterson," he growls, repeating the motion.

Nope.

Stiles grabs the doorknob and tries to angle his hand very careful; the key trembles, but he gets it into the lock. A savage twist of his wrist and he shoves open the door, practically throwing himself inside.

Fuck fuck _fuck _Derek.

Fuck Derek for making him feel special, and then souring all of it. Couldn't he tell that Stiles liked him? Did he think it'd be fun to mess with Stiles? Oh, treat the weird, loner kid nicely and make him feel comfortable and exploit it, exploit _him _for everything he's worth?

No, that's not true.

Derek could have taken him back to his room, and Stiles would have done anything. He would have dropped down to his knees and he would have stripped himself naked and crawled onto Derek's bed. So long as Derek was there, so as long as Derek was the one biting at his neck and kissing his mouth and pushing into him, Stiles would do anything.

So why stop? Was he really that terrible?

Sure, Stiles has never kissed anyone, but he didn't think he was, like, awful. He figures he's seen enough porn and read enough erotica to have picked up _something, _anything. It's not like his mind is virginal; it's just his body that's unskilled and untouched.

Maybe he's taking it personal. He remembers Scott leaning across the booth, grinning at him: _College is a different ballgame. People just wanna play ball._

Maybe that's all it was to Derek – a make-out session, just another one of a hundred.

Maybe Stiles' eagerness, his _neediness, _had been a turn off.

It probably meant more to him than it did to Derek, and Derek was trying to spare them both – spare Stiles the embarrassment of figuring out that Derek wasn't interested in _dating_ him, and spare himself from a clingy little freshman.

A win-win situation.

It makes the most sense, and Stiles always tries to be logical – well, not always, but for the most part. The thought acts like baking soda on a grease fire, and Stiles suddenly just feels foolish.

He's wounded, because his dick is throbbing in his jeans and he's never felt so _alive _in his life and hey, he ruined all of it by being too presumptuous. And he may have also possibly ruined his chances of ever getting Derek to do those same exact things, if not more.

That's when he makes his decision.

He'll apologize to Derek for freaking out.

And then he'll fuck Derek without attachment.

Fuck, maybe he'll fuck people that aren't Derek, but even then, he won't get attached.

If people just want to play ball, Stiles can play ball. Sure, he sucked at gym his entire life and once managed to hit himself with a baseball bat, but he'll play ball.

It's just sex, right?

Just sex. And Stiles wants the sex.

But for now, he closes the blinds and tugs off his jeans and palms himself through his briefs. He pulls open his laptop and searches through a few porn clips before picking one, and it's the start of something good.

* * *

When he wakes up the next day, Jackson is passed out across from him, one hand dangling off the side of the bed. Stiles never heard him come in, already passed out by then – it's probably a good thing. Still, he lifts his blankets and looks down at himself, searching for any, y'know, stab wounds or bruises.

He rolls onto his stomach and the motion alone causes his head to swell in protest; he stifles a groan and peers over the edge of his bed, noting the time – it's stupidly early to be awake on a Sunday, especially when he's hung over, but he knows how much homework he has weighing down on his shoulders. It makes him sigh, and he scrubs at his eyes, then gingerly eases himself out of bed. He squints back at Jackson, making sure his roommate is still sleeping, then strips out of his clothes and secures a towel around his waist.

He shoves his feet into his sandals, grabs his shower caddy and keys, and heads down the hall. The fucking lights try to blind him, and he shields his eyes with his hand, trying to recall how many drinks he had last night – apparently, it was one too many.

The bathroom is empty, so he pauses in front of the mirror, half-hoping to find a hickey, or even just a bruise. There's nothing, though, and he can't tell whether he's glad or disappointed. At least he won't have to hide anything from Jackson.

Gods, he doesn't want to think about Jackson. Like, Stiles already knows the kid is going to make his life a living hell. And what if he finds out that Stiles totally stole Derek away, and then made out with him?

Yea, no, that can't happen. Ever.

He takes his time in the shower. The heat feels good against his skin and he can close his eyes and pretend his body isn't one big ache. When his skin starts to wrinkle, he shuts the faucet off and dries himself, fastening the damp towel low on his hips.

As he steps out, he realizes he's not alone.

Derek is at the sinks, brushing his teeth. His eyes flicker over to where Stiles is, away, and then back again as he realizes it's, well, Stiles.

Instantly, he feels himself darken. He'd hoped he could go a day or two without actually seeing Derek, but it's now or never. So he pauses in the junction between the showers and the sinks and takes the plunge. "Hey – I'm sorry for flipping out last night, I wasn't at my best, but I think you're making a mistake. I mean, no one has to know, right?"

He's confident at first, tone firm, but then he feels himself falter, and before he can stop himself, he adds, "Unless – unless it wasn't good for you. In which case, like, uhm, I…"

Derek spits out the paste in his mouth, rinses, spits again, and then turns to actually face Stiles. He's leaning against the counter in sweatpants and a white v-neck; it looks too sinfully good to be pajamas, and Stiles is painfully aware he's only wearing a towel and his body isn't that amazing to behold.

"Yea?" the RA says, lifting a brow, and Stiles squints over at him, not liking how haughty he sounds. It's the cure to his nerves, and he crosses the distance between them. His sandals squeak on the tile, but he tries not to focus on that, instead holds Derek's gaze as he approaches, not stopping until their bodies are millimeters apart.

"Yea," he answers.

Maybe it's a fluke, but Stiles is almost sure Derek's breath hitches just a little bit, and it's the boost he needs to press their mouths together. It's short and Derek kisses him back, which is surprising; as he withdraws, he nips at Derek's lower lip.

"Yea," he repeats, and he leaves.

He leaves, and as soon as he's out of the bathroom, he feels like a motherfucking badass. He may or may not do a fist pump.


	4. Chapter 4

The line picks up on the fifth ring, and there's a muffled, "Stiles, give me a sec." He can hear chewing, and then after a moment, the slurping of what is presumably coffee.

"Dad, tell me you're not eating donuts." Stiles sighs and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose; he's walking across campus, having just escaped his computer science lab. His eyes feel heavy and strained, too much time spent staring at a computer screen, and his stomach is on the verge of rioting.

"Of course I'm not!" the sheriff exclaims, and Stiles squints, trying to decide whether his father is lying or not. "Anyway, can we not talk about my diet. How's school going for you? Are your classes okay?"

Diets or classes – Stiles is considering choosing the former, but he doesn't want to turn this conversation into a lecture. Instead, he shrugs, then remembers his dad isn't actually, physically, there. Which, _duh, _but it still is like a punch to the gut. "They're fine, Dad. I mean, some of them are interesting, and others I just need for my diploma and couldn't care less about."

"But you're working hard, right?" There's an edge in his voice, warning Stiles that there is only one right answer. They've been through this a hundred times though, and Stiles is pretty sure his father only asks the question at this point because he doesn't want to seem like a lax father.

"Of course, Dad."

"Okay. Okay. How're you? Make any friends?"

"I'm fine. And no, not yet, not really. Like, kinda. I don't know." How do you tell your dad that your RA is off-the-charts sexy and that you may or may not have propositioned them about casual sex?

Stiles isn't sure, but he thinks the answer may be very simple: You just don't.

It's one of the only things on his mind though – _Derek Derek Derek. _It's almost an obsession, and it's gross and wrong, but he can't get the feel of Derek's mouth out of his head. It makes him wonder if he is even capable of the whole casual-sex thing; he gets too attached, too easily.

Maybe it doesn't even matter, because it's been three days since Stiles kissed Derek in the bathroom, the taste of his toothpaste still on his lips, and nothing has happened. Which, yea, it's only been _three days, _but still. Stiles isn't sure if he should be the one to broach the subject, or if he should wait for Derek – part of him wishes it was just some crazy nightmare, because he's pretty sure he overstepped his bounds.

The kiss in the hallway has fueled many a masturbatory session; it was above and beyond what he expected. Why did he have to go and push it?

"Stiles? Still there?"

He blinks and swallows, switches the phone from one ear to the other. "Uh, y-yea, sorry. Got distracted. Sorry."

"Is there… something I should know?" It's not a suspicious question, fishing to catch Stiles fucking up, but genuine concern, and Stiles wishes he could teleport back home, just to give his dad one hug. One. That's it.

He reaches up and digs the palm of his hand into his eye, rubbing away the sudden burden of tears. "Not really, just kinda stressed and figuring shit out," he answers, voice tight.

The sheriff pauses, sighs, but doesn't push. "Well, I love you, son. Call me more often, I like to hear your voice."

"Roger."

A laugh, and Stiles can hear someone else speaking, his father's answer muffled. There's a rustling sound, and then the sheriff is tuned back to him. "I don't mean to cut you off, Stiles, but–"

"It's cool, Dad. I'll call more often. Love you."

They click off and Stiles shoves his phone into his jeans pocket, turning towards the café. It's kinda late for a drink, almost four o'clock, but college runs on coffee and no one judges.

He orders a sixteen-ounce and stops at the bar to add an almost obscene amount of sugar and cream. As he rips open his third sugar pack, someone says, "Are you aiming for a sugar or a caffeine high?"

Stiles glances over, and two blue eyes are staring back. Tousled, loose blonde curls. Cheekbones that hardly seem fair, chiseled as they are. Full pink lips, curled up into a smile.

His coffee almost topples, but Stiles manages not to make a complete fool of himself. "I like my sugar with coffee," he says, once he finds his voice. A small shrug and a little smirk, and the boy grins at him.

"S'that how it is?" The boy grabs a straw and pops it into his drink – it looks like a frappe – then says, "Well, I hope you enjoy diabetes." His grin turns cheeky and, when he leaves, Stiles is left smiling stupidly to himself, a half-formed laugh on his tongue, hushed by the kid's figure. He's long and lean, shoulders wide, hips tapered.

As he leaves the coffee shop, he adjusts his scarf, and Stiles doubts he'll be able to walk across campus without scoping out scarf-boy.

Really, it's unfair to tease a boy and not even offer your name.

Stiles finishes mutilating his coffee and slips back outside, noting the day and time (Wednesday, four in the afternoon). He may have to make more trips to the café – more than he already does, anyway.

* * *

The grass is freshly watered and slippery as hell, but they agreed on Thursday at seven and fuck if that's going to change. Both of their shorts are stained and soaked, and gooseflesh breaks out on Stiles' arms when a breeze picks up. He wraps his arms around himself and squeezes, watching as Scott darts out and plucks the frisbee from the air.

Scott doesn't pause, instead catches the frisbee, twirls, and Stiles is jerking himself across the grass as the disc whizzes to his left. His stretches an arm out, shouting, but manages to snatch the frisbee as his feet slip out from underneath him. He drops to his knees and rolls, laughing and a little out of breath. Scott cheers and Stiles climbs back to his feet, snapping his wrist as he sends the frisbee back toward Scott.

The kid is a ninja, seriously. It's almost supernatural. Stiles remembers high school, and how they'd both been gangly and awkward; Scott seemed to grow out of it though, whereas Stiles – well, Stiles is Stiles. Sophomore year, Scott made the lacrosse team; junior year, he made varsity; by senior year, he'd gotten a few phone calls from scouts, and went on to accept a pleasant scholarship from the state university.

The practices have honed his body, and where there was once baby fat, there's now muscle. No wonder he managed to catch a girl like Allison within the first few weeks.

Stiles almost hates him as he watches the frisbee race to the right and catch the breeze, jumping up a few feet. Scott sprints after it and leaps up, grasping the frisbee; he doesn't even seem phased, though he is wearing a shit-eating grin. Stiles groans and covers his face with his hands.

When he looks up, Scott is shouting at him. A beat later, something collides hard against his skull and Stiles stumbles back; of course, he slips and falls onto his ass. He moans, lifting a hand to his head, feeling out the tender spot where the frisbee struck. There's no blood, but it hella hurts.

"You okay?"

Stiles is expecting Scott, but instead, when he pulls open his eyes, Derek is crouched down beside him, grinning softly. "You know, I always thought frisbee was a hands-on game."

Stiles just moans again and shuts his eyes; _please _god, let this be a delusion, it can't be fair to let him get hit in the face _and _fall on his ass, all in front of the hottest guy on campus. Change Derek Hale into someone else that's less handsome and more attainable. Fuck fuck fuck.

When he opens his eyes again, though, Derek is definitely hovering above him and how is he so good looking at every fucking possible angle? Stiles wants to punch him.

"I understand why you don't do sports now," Derek says.

Stiles scowls and pushes himself up; Derek proffers a hand and helps him to his feet, and Stiles tries not to be effected by how nice his hands are – large and firm and rough with calluses, but soft all the same. "Are you dropping out to become a comedian now?" he says sourly to fill the silence, but Derek just roll his eyes.

"Stiles!" Now Scott shows up, looking a little uncertain; his gaze shifts from Stiles to Derek and back, and Stiles realizes what took him so long – he was probably having some moral battle about what to do, worried about Stiles' wellbeing but also wanting to be a bro and let Stiles have a moment with his crush. "Sorry, man – you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I've just been struck by what feels like lightning, but I'm _fine._" He throws his hands up in the air dramatically and Scott stares at him, still looking a little lost. Derek just guffaws.

"Lightning?"

Stiles sighs and drops his head back, groaning up at the sky. "I'm starting to think you actually came over to laugh at me rather than see how I am."

"I plead the fifth." Derek puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "See you later." A nod towards Scott, and he saunters off; Stiles can't pretend he doesn't glance over his shoulder and watch, breathing, "Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave."

Scott snorts and Stiles snaps his attention away from the Greek-god-in-disguise (should he be concerned about how many different descriptions he has for Derek?). "Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I totally didn't even look before I threw the frisbee, and _of course, _that's when I have dead-on aim." Scott winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Stiles shakes his head, waving him off.

There's a beat of silence, and then Scott adds, "It was pretty funny though."

Stiles tries not to smile and fails, laughing. "Jesus, and Derek had to be there for all of it."

Scott bites his lip, then turns his head and starts laughing; Stiles joins in.

* * *

"Hey, Jackson. What's up?"

Silence.

"Seriously? That's awesome!"

Silence.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear…?" Stiles ventures, just in case Jackson's day was shitty and Stiles' is misinterpreting his silence. Jackson has various silences; there's the happy silence, and the sad silence, and the fuck-you-don't-talk-to-me silence and the horny silence and, yea, it's a pretty extensive list. Doesn't matter that Stiles totally came up with all of them.

Jackson looks over at Stiles, hand lifting from his notes, and he asks icily, "Are you done?"

"Whoa, just trying to make conversation. Roommates do that, y'know? They take a general interest in one another." Stiles tosses his backpack on his bed, yawning. "Maybe you didn't get the memo, but that's okay, I got your back."

"Oh _my god._" Jackson hisses and Stiles turns away to hide a smile. Ever since he started fucking with Jackson, having a grumpy roommate has been a lot more fun.

He's not _fucking _Jackson, but fucking _with _Jackson – just to be clear.

Not that he hasn't thought about it. Jackson's pretty hot, if you like ice-cold lovers and daggers for eyes.

"So, it's Friday. And you're in the room. That's unusual…" he says slowly, fishing. "Are you detoxing or something?"

Jackson sighs. That's another thing Stiles gauges his roomie by – how angry his sighs are; he's been thinking about creating something like a Richter scale to evaluate Jackson's sighs, but he doesn't have that much free time.

He may be a loser, but he's not _that _much of a loser.

"Stop talking to me."

"Will do."

Stiles strips out of his shirt – _You stay classy, San Diego _– and pulls on a black one instead, then shoulders into his favorite zip-up, snatches up his keys, wallet, and phone, and heads for the door.

"Where are _you _going?" Jackson's tone is accusatory and Stiles stops to look over at him, one hand twisting the doorknob.

"Uh, elsewhere," he says, shrugging. The door falls shut behind him, and he smirks to himself.

Thirty minutes later, he's standing in the movie theatre lobby, contemplating what size popcorn he should get, and does he want some candy as well? The prices are jacked like crazy, and he regrets not stopping at the gas station to pick something, _anything_, up.

"Hey, sugar-boy," someone half-purrs into his ear; Stiles jerks away, mouth gaping.

"Jesus _Christ,_" he growls, running his fingers through his hair and tousling the strands. It takes him a moment to react, but when he does, he smiles. "Hey, scarf-boy." Something possesses him to reach forward and adjust the scarf that scarf-boy is wearing. (Really, who wears a _scarf _to the movies? Like, for real.)

"Try Isaac," he corrects, a small smile on his mouth as he watches Stiles.

"_Isaac,_" Stiles repeats, glancing upward and grinning; he pats Isaac's chest to indicate he's finished. "I'unno, I think scarf-boy might be a bit catchier. You may want to work on _sugar-boy_ though, because that suggests I need a sugar-daddy, which I mean…" He's babbling and not in a good way, especially since Isaac is basically a stranger and Stiles is being inappropriate. He stops himself and flushes, finishes, "Try Stiles."

"Stiles? Is that actually your name?"

A shake of his head, and he looks back toward the concessions. "Uh, no. My last name is Stilinski, and my first name is just – it's hard to pronounce, so everyone calls me Stiles."

"Mmm," Isaac intones, and there's a beat of awkward silence. Stiles considers making his excuse to leave, but then Isaac asks, "What movie are you seeing?"

"_Jurassic Park_, 3D. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, y'know?"

Isaac grins and nods, "Yea, I went opening night. It was pretty good. I mean…"

"I'm sorry, I think I heard you wrong – it was pretty good?" Stiles bunches his brows and Isaac shrugs, shameless. That's when a girl shows up, all blonde hair and curves. She has red lipstick, and she wraps her hand around Isaac's bicep.

_Straight. Taken._

Stiles automatically takes a step back and the presumed girlfriend says, "Babe, we're gonna miss the show if you keep chit-chatting."

Isaac looks like he's going to apologize, but Stiles just takes another step back, saying, "It's chill – I gotta order my dinner anyway. It was nice discovering your name, Isaac." A wave, and he turns around.

He orders a medium popcorn, a large box of M&M's, and a medium Fanta. It's almost like the volume of food is supposed to compensate for the fact that he's alone.

* * *

There's a golly little knock on the door and Stiles glares over at the door; he's twisted in his blankets, even though it's three in the afternoon. It's also a Saturday though, and he's feeling a little blue. There's an ache deep in his bones, and each time he thinks about all the homework waiting for him, he just wants to burrow further into his blankets.

"Fuck," he breathes into his pillow as the knock comes again. He shoves at his blankets and drops out of his bed, shuffling toward the door. When he opens it, no one is there.

There is a note, however, taped to the door. It's addressed to him, Stiles, in tight, neat letters, and when he opens it up, there's an invite to a masquerade-themed dance party on Saturday.

This Saturday. As in, today. A few hours from now.

_Meet me by the rose bushes, _it says, and Stiles can't tell whether this is a joke or like, a super sexy invitation from someone.

Maybe Derek. Fuck, what if it's Derek? What if "masquerade-themed dance party" and "rose bushes" is code for like, sex? Stiles swallows hard at the thought and hastily tucks the invitation back into the envelope, in case his _inviter_ is watching.

"Did you just get up?"

And, of course, it's Derek. And, of course, Stiles has to jolt, flinging the invite into the air, shouting wordlessly as his limbs so some spastic motion. Two seconds later, he clutches at his chest, glaring across the hallway where Derek is, peering at Stiles with a mixed expression that's both dubious and humored.

"Why can't you, like, just make noises like a normal person?" he mutters angrily.

It's like a smile is always playing at the corner of his lips, and whenever Stiles shows up, Derek can't help but flash it – probably because it knows things to Stiles' blood pressure. "I'm a werewolf."

"And I'm the abominable snowman." Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to catch you off guard. But, seriously, did you just get up? Your hair is doing some crazy shit right now."

He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, nodding. "Yes, I did. And I wish I was still sleeping."

"You realize it's almost three, yea? How're you going to be able to sleep tonight?"

"If you spent a night with me, you'd understand," he says, and he isn't sure whether the surge of confidence came from. Maybe it's his slutty alter ego, getting better at the whole mind-control thing?

Stiles isn't sure, and he isn't even sure whether what he just said was stupid or slightly clever, but either way, Derek bites at his lip and nods. Stiles wrinkles his nose and says, "I'm going to shut my door and pretend that didn't just happen, okay?"

"_Wait. _How's your head… and your ass?" Derek pairs it with a smirk that makes Stiles feel a little dirty, in a good way.

"Perfect," he says, quirking a brow. "Why? You interested?"

A shrug. "I gotta go. Basketball practice, y'know?"

"Oh, yea, I totally understand."

Derek wrinkles his nose and laughs, and Stiles is still standing in his door a minutes later, smiling to himself, debating whether Derek with a crinkled nose is cuter than Derek with swollen red lips.

* * *

Despite his better judgment, Stiles takes a shower and pulls on the only thing befitting a masquerade dance: fitted, dark-washed jeans, a rumpled, white button-down shirt, and a black blazer. He spends time doing his hair, and he may have snooped around Jackson's side of the room until he found his roomie's industrial-strength hair gel.

When he looks in the mirror, he doesn't quite recognize himself. Stiles doesn't make it a habit to dress up, but that's the point of masquerade – to be unrecognizable.

And, if Derek _is _the one who invited him, well… Stiles definitely wants to look good, if not down right delectable.

He tries not to run down the stairs, but he does, and as he winds his way across the campus to the row of rose bushes, he tries not to jog – or, better yet, sprint. Despite his anticipation, he's also incredibly nervous. What if it isn't Derek? What if it's… What, some random person?

Why would Derek be going to a masquerade dance party thing, anyway? (Why most people are going, Stiles imagines – for the dancing and the bodies and the booze and the sex.)

Still. Why would anyone invite Stiles?

His heart is thudding in his chest, and he bites at his lip as he rounds the last corner. The line of rose bushes is a few hundred feet away, but the closest lamps are farther, leaving the string of bushes in shadow. Stiles squints, hoping to distinguish a shape from the gloom, hoping to see broad shoulders and strong hands.

There's no one.

His heart sinks, and Stiles spins mid-step, looking around him. No one is there either. Still, he keeps walking forward, just in case he's not seeing everything. Maybe he's early, maybe his _date _is late. Maybe–

Someone crashes through the bushes and Stiles stumbles sideways; he doesn't have time to register who it is, but he does register the pain. There's a punch to his face, another, and the hand gripping his shoulder digs into his flesh, keeping him from running off or even falling. Stiles grabs the kid's hair (there isn't much) and jerks his elbow like his dad taught him; there's a dark grunt, but it only seems to motivate his assailant, because then there's a knee in his groin and Stiles doubles over. A few punches to the stomach finish him off; he's wheezing, barely able to breathe, and blood is stinging his eyes.

By the time the kid runs off, Stiles is on his knees, shaking. It starts with his fingers, digging into the hard, cold cement of the sidewalk, but it escalates, the anxiety pulling through his body like string through a puppet. The hits aren't the thing preventing him from breathing, he realizes; no, it's like something is inside of him, gripping his lungs until they can't work.

Stiles chokes and tries to stand, but he can't. His mind flashes through a hundred different things, a thousand different sights – his mother, pinned down in a gurney, lacerations coating her skin like a million paper cuts, the shallowness of her breath, the blood. There's his father, hand vibrating so much that the neck of the scotch bottle rattles against his glass. Stiles groans, tries to remember what his old therapist said – breathe in, breathe out, slow slow slow down; he starts going through his times tables and tries to recite the alphabet backwards.

The attack passes in its own time, but Stiles doesn't move, outside of his sputters and chokes. He's crying, and when he feels his heart thud back to its normal pace and stay there, he climbs shakily to his feet. He fusses over his hair, trying to keep his head cool, and he takes his time walking back to the dorm, one foot in front of the other in front of the other.

He's numb more than anything; there's the aura of pain, sinking into his skin, but his head is up in the clouds, unable to be touched. When he finally makes it to his room, he barely even hears his name; his eyes flick up, but he doesn't register the face staring at him from down the hall. He blinks, and whoever it is is suddenly lurching closer. Stiles turns away, presses his forehead against the door and just – he just _breathes._

Stiles breathes while he still can.


End file.
